


The Mysterious Affair at Dorne

by AsbestosMouth



Series: The Dornewall Chronicles [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1920's, AU obviously, Agatha Christie knock-off, Dorne is lovely this time of year, F/M, Fluff, I don't even know either, M/M, Mysterious Affairs Indeed!, Romance, Stolen swords!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jaime Lannister manages to persuade Brienne to, albeit under sufferance, go on holiday somewhere (poor girl is thoroughly over-worked), he is not really thinking of visting Dorne. Lovely place. Shame it is over-run with Martells who dislike him and might try and seduce his wife. Between that and not being the exotic get-away he is really hoping for, the Dornish Riviera is not his first choice. Lannisters deal, however, and he has dealt with worse; having a hand blown off by the Germans during the Third Battle for Ypres for one. When he and Brienne are thrust into a knotty problem that threatens to ruin their holiday and Jaime's chance at getting the lovely Lady Tarth into her swimming costume, it is up to the pair try to and solve the Mysterious Affair at Dorne.</p><p>The Agatha Christie inspired fic that no one really needed, but you're getting anyway. Second part of the Dornewall Chronicles. It can be read as a stand alone if required.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where Holidays are Attempted, and Heirlooms Stolen

**Author's Note:**

> Why have the Martells not got a Valyrian blade in the books? It would make sense that the would, and Tyrion does say there are over two hundred of the blades in Westeros alone. Hence me making one up for plot goodness.
> 
> The locomotive mentioned is the second built of the 'Castle Class' series of engines, and was delivered in late 1923. It was, sadly, broken up for scrap during the period between thinking steam trains were passe, and then thinking 'shit, we should have saved these marvels of British engineering.' The first of the class, the Caerphilly Castle, is on display at the Science Museum in London.

* * *

 

“Wench.”

 

“My name is Brienne.” She’s reading _The Times_ , strong hands resting lightly on the pages and becoming that slightest bit inky from the newspaper print transfer. I’m hogging the chaise longue (don’t even go there, I know, it’s all a bit boudoir, but it is a comfortable seat to be on, okay?) idly leering as she looks glorious. Just a pair of mens flannel pyjama bottoms in Castle Black tartan, just an old shirt of mine that’s gone a bit ratty, but she looks mussed and relaxed and very much like I should try and put her over my shoulder and take her back to bed. Or on the chaise longue. Or over the dining table.

 

“Still a wench.” Love calling her that. Still do it for the reaction. She’ll shoot me a look of huffy acceptance, but we both know it would be really odd if I called her love, or sweetheart, or angelbum, or whatever other blokes call their missuses.

 

“Still Brienne.” Pointedly not looking at me. Wench. She has been for a haircut in the gentleman’s barber; the Bolton boy is odd beyond belief, and I’m not sure who entrusted him with razors and the like, but she does insist. Hairdressers always try to make her do something feminine with her fine and flyaway locks, so are avoided at all costs. She prefers it hacked off, the sides and back shaved as short as a schoolboy’s, longer on top and threatening to fall across her forehead. She has a very pale forehead, like the rest of her at the moment. Maybe a tan would help. When she has a crop, the hair at the back of her neck is soft like moleskin, and I’ve got this urge to go over and rub my cheek against the soft hairs like some big Lannister lion.

 

"Let’s go away somewhere. Somewhere warm, so you can swim and I can admire you while I guard the sandwiches, and fend off lustful foreigners trying to steal you. The Cap d’Volantis, or something?”

 

“I have to work, Jaime.” Still, so frustratingly not looking over! Maybe if I strip off and jump up and down, do some of those calisthenics she’s really obsessive about doing every morning before I unwillingly drag myself out of the marital bed? Surely a few jumping jacks will grab her attention? She really is very fond of the Lannister wedding tackle, surely she’d be up for going back to bed and getting on with some horizontal exercise?

 

“I don’t see why you work, I’m rich. I can keep you in flannel pyjamas and tweed.” Work takes Brienne away, and she ends up massaging and prodding other men (Tyrell, Seaworth, the less annoying of the Martells) in places that no wenchy hand should venture, advising them about vitamin regimen and careful exercise. “I get sad and lonely, and miss you. You know what happens when I get bored.”

 

“Yes, I do.” Terrible things. Dreadful things.

 

“Wench?”

 

“Again, I am definitely Brienne.”

 

“Let’s go on holiday? You can go swimming. You like swimming, it’s healthy exercise that doesn’t overly strain the body, but works all the different parts. You tell all us chaps that.” Encouraging noises are added.

 

“Yes, Jaime. I like swimming. However, I know that you also like me swimming, and that, at the moment, means I’m not going anywhere near any sea, pool, or pond.” Brienne. Emerging from the water like a boyish Aphrodite, all legs that go for miles and cheeks glowing with ruddy health and strapping vitality? Of course I encourage her to go swimming. I am a red blooded man who is in love with my wife, and I am damned if I won’t try and manipulate her into situations where she looks gorgeous, sopping wet, and really beddable.

 

And repeat ad nauseum.

 

* * *

  
  
We catch the 9.32am _Caldicot Castle_ -pulled train to Dorne, although luckily it leaves twelve minutes late. It is not my fault that I can’t travel light - it’s a Lannister issue, and Tyrion is worse than me even if his clothes are half the size - and I have to decide in a bit of a hurry which pair of tan brogues to wear with my travelling suit. Brienne doesn’t say anything, but as one of those annoying people who insists on being ten minutes early for everything, even dinner invitations, she is starting to twitch by the time I choose the oxfords.

 

The delay also proves lucky when the porter turns out to be weak and useless when it comes to the three trunks I packed, so it is mostly down to Brienne to heave them into the guard’s van. To be honest, she does all the heavy lifting with the conductor directing, and I admire the muscles shifting in her back and make sure to mention the war wounds so other men don’t think I am a complete cad.

 

“I still can’t believe you’ve talked me into this.” She settles in her seat, the compartment thankfully empty for the time being. Joys of insisting on First Class.

 

“Dorne is lovely at this time of year.” Brienne has stolen one of my sports jackets, the one with the leather patches at the elbows. In her sleeveless Fair Isle sweater, replete with shirt and tie, she looks rather like the sort of sixth form boy I turned out to have a massive crush on when puberty decided to make things a little confusing for me. Albeit larger, and more Brienne-y, with her kind scarred face and tired eyes. Part of me wants to scoop her up on my lap and kiss all the tension from her body, while the more sane bit of me realises that I might get squashed.

 

I vote for squashing, take her hand, and pull her onto my knee.

 

* * *

  
  
_“Mr Lannister?”_

 

_The person before him was very tall, and very blond, and had spectacular blue eyes. He blinked, muzzily reaching a hand to shake, then remembering and offering the left instead. The person’s grip was firm, and rather dry; it was a reassuring gesture, in a strange way, with the underlying strength gloved with gentle care. Iron fists in velvet gloves and all that._

 

_“I am Dr. Tarth, I’m here to talk about losing your hand.”_

 

_“I’m sure you’ll find bits of it at Passchendaele if you look hard enough. Can I have a fag?”_

 

_One was lit and handed over. The person - and Jaime was not sure whether they were male or female - settled at the end of the bed. The clothing suggested male; tweed jacket under the long white coat, stethoscope about the neck, sharp-creased trousers and polished brogues. Tie? Check. Having been surrounded with nurses, albeit ones who were more than happy to show a little kindness to a handsome war hero with the Lannister name and Captain rank, it was refreshing to have someone more, well, manly? If that was correct. The hair was definitely cut in a male style. The person was either a fresh-faced (very scarred, that was nasty) young man of about twenty, or a very ugly woman of a similar age. No one could be that unfortunate to give birth to a girl like that, could they?_

 

_“They’re bad for you.” Dr. Tarth’s remonstration was like being mauled by a slightly irked and overly-earnest dormouse._

 

_“And getting the hand blown off wasn’t?” He flashed teeth, settling his head onto the soft pillow. Jaime was very aware that he was bloody lucky. Not only had he survived the injury, but here at Sidcup they had patched him up brilliantly. Psychologically, of course, he was buggered beyond belief, but at least they kept him topped up with choice opiates and had made the stump look less like he’d put his arm into a meat grinder. Money talked; usually, he’d have been at some field hospital, but given the influence of Daddy Lannister, Jaime had been shipped out when he was stable enough to get sent home, and put into the most advanced medical centre in the country._

 

_Dr. Tarth bit a ripely overly-large lip, scribbling notes._

 

_“So, Doc, when am I out of here?”_

 

_“Dr. Gillies would like you to do some work with me, to prepare you for civilian life. I’m a physical therapist, I specialise in helping those who have been injured.” Dr. Tarth spoke the name of the eminent surgeon like some might say ‘The Warrior,’ or ‘Cersei Lannister;’ worshipful and very much in awe. Not that Jaime had any sort of ‘thing’ for the Warrior, but his twin was another matter. Although she now refused to see him. Understandable, though, considering Cersei. Her treatment of Tyrion had always indicated that imperfection really pissed her off._

 

_He could have done with a cuddle and a little bit of the other sort of physical therapy that Dr. Tarth wouldn’t provide, but the nurses were too professional, and Cersei too squeamish._

 

_“So, what’s going to happen?”_

 

 _“I will teach you how to use your left hand.”_ _  
_

 

* * *

 

Martell (the annoying one) sends a car to pick us up from the dock. Getting to Dorne is, as my American friends might call, a complete ball ache. Train from the capital down to the Lizard, then the _Lyonesse II_ over to the main island, and another, smaller ferry, to Dorne itself. I was told during the voyage by some grizzled old sailor that the original _Lyonesse_ accidentally smashed open on a reef somewhere near the little island of Starfall, and everyone drowned. Cheerful thing to contemplate over a spot of lunch, I find.

 

The car is as overly-pretentious as Martell himself. It looks just like a normal Varys Sparrow, but someone has installed a drinks cabinet and a huge amount of black leather. It looks like a place in Soho, the one on Flea Bottom Lane, that Tyrion insisted we visit one bored afternoon between having my hand blown off by the Germans and marrying Brienne. Less women, though given Martell I am a bit surprised. The driver, by the same standard, seems relatively normal, albeit dressed in some sort of highly-shone black uniform that also seems in incorporate most of half a cow.

 

Pleasant ride to the Water Gardens. Brienne seems to come out of the shell she’s been hiding in, just a bit. The last time we were here for, ‘Cella’s wedding, proved to be an interesting occasion. I was mostly drunk since I wasn’t able to give my daughter away, and that really does hurt a man, even if the daughter isn’t aware that kind uncle Jaime is indeed Daddy, but watching Willas Tyrell getting beaten by his Grandmother proved to be hilarious and rather cheered me up. Not that the man deserves to be attacked by an angry but oddly agile old woman. I have no idea why she carries a cane, she doesn’t need it. The Olenna moves like greased lightning when pressed. But in dark times, we must find bright moments. Even if it means someone getting their nose broken.

 

Doran greets us with his usual genteel politeness. He doesn’t like me. Something to do with his sister, who, well, it is rather complicated, but there is a touch of bad blood between Lannisters and Martells. With ‘Cella marrying his youngest, I’m hoping that everything will now settled down. Babies are usually really good things to soothe angry grandparents, but if not, then I’ll just settle for needling every Martell I can find at every chance I get. He adores Brienne, though, and that makes interaction a little easier, but I can see his beady Dornish eye glowing as my wench kisses his cheek. Old lech. I mean, we aren’t that much different in age, but he is still old and leery. I am handsome, with excellent hair and legs that work, so I’ve got that up on him.

 

“My dearest Brienne.” Smug bastard.

 

“How lovely to see you again, you’re looking very well.” I’ll just book them a room in a local guesthouse, shall I? He’s holding her hands, now, giving her the old dark-eyed long look that Martells seem to specialise in when they fancy someone. Of course, that means the more annoying Martell gives that look to everything, including racehorses, motor cars, and probably several sorts of fish.

 

“Your excellent advice, my dear. I feel the stiffness far less these days since you told me about the uses of fish oils.”

 

I cough, to remind Doran that the young lady he is about to leap on is very married.

 

“And Jaime.” Dismissive arrogant non-deviant.

 

“Doran.” I give him the left handed shake, which I am thrilled to see confuses him for a brief second.

 

“You will have the same suite as at the wedding; your luggage will be there waiting for you, and I shall send one of the girls to unpack.” He eyed me. I eyed him. We eyed each other, and he broke away first. Ha! I win! Take that, Martell!

 

“Now, I think I shall rest. I will see you at supper, Brienne.” A kiss to her hand this time, or at least the pulse point on her wrist, and she goes pink all over her face. His moustache must be tickling. Definitely. Nothing else.

 

“Jaime.” He wheels off, and I claim my wench back with a possessive arm about her waist. Not that she has a waist. I mean, she does, it holds her chest away from her pelvis and everything would be odd without it, but she is quite straight up and down. Some of her female acquaintances (Margaery Tyrell, Sansa Clegane) say her figure is very fashionable, but she doesn’t care one jot. She is, as ever, just Brienne.

 

“He was eyeing you up, wench.”

 

“Don’t be silly. Doran is far too much of a gentleman-” The rest of the sentence, unsaid, hangs between us. _And I am too grotesque_ , she thinks. Brienne doesn’t understand that some chaps who are less shallow than most of society (and I force this through gritted teeth) like Doran Martell can see her inner beauty and respond to it. Brienne is ugly, no two ways around it, especially with those scars, but the people who care to get to know her always adore her. It makes me want to beat them away from my beloved wife with sticks. She still finds it hard to understand that good looks and pretty faces aren’t everything, since it was drilled into her by some monster of a nanny who dragged her up from when she was very small that her face made her worthless in the greater scheme of things. Her loyalty and determination were nothing since no one would ever like her, especially not men, and without a man, what good was any woman? Sometimes I catch her just watching me with this odd look in her eyes, as if everything is not quite real and our little world that we fought so hard for will be stolen away. She doesn’t realise that it’s me who is the one who should be afraid; that one day everything will click and she’ll understand that the half-broken and handless Lannister who she married is not worthy of pure goodness and kind heart.

 

I think the fear of her going off with someone else, someone who is better than me, makes me rather possessive. If I can head off potential suitors at the pass, so to speak, then I am in a much better position to keep her all to myself.

 

She smiles slightly, and I catch her fingers with mine. Brienne always walks to my left, where I can hold her hand with my only one.

 

* * *

 

Oberyn Martell is riding some enormous red horse about an outside ring filled with sand. He wears his breeches too tight, and obviously forgot to do his shirt up that morning. He is also sporting the sort of thin moustache that cads in American films wear, the one that looks like a caterpillar has taken up residence on his upper lip. It frustratingly suits him.

 

“Ah, beautiful Brienne is here!” He beams, trotting over, reins in one hand as if to mock me. “My Tyrell shall be so happy. He has mourned not seeing you. Silly boy, I said you would visit him and I.” He purrs at her, and I find myself wanting to steal his whip and give him what for, but he’d probably love being spanked by an angry blond Lannister. He’s the sort of type that would go for anything vaguely non-U.

 

Her smile is genuine, and wide, and takes up the entire lower half of her face. Why does everyone like this man? He’s oily. He tries to sleep with everyone/thing. He’s not even that handsome. I used to have muscles in my stomach like that. Mine were better. Brienne would break him and I’m far more robust. I’m a war hero Captain with a dashing wound, dammit.

 

They chatter at many miles an hour about horses, and hunting, and the new beast she has that is half Clydesdale. It has an excellent stride, apparently, and a super cadence. True, Benny very nice. He has that sleepiness that heavy horses seem to have, but goes like smoke when Brienne is atop him. She wears breeches, and does things with her pelvis to urge him onwards that mean she gets thoroughly kissed by me behind the stables the moment she’s dismounted. Before I lost the hand, I rode, but I’ve not got the urge since. Maybe I should try again? If I get breeches and not much of a shirt, maybe Brienne will not be tempted by Dornishmen?

 

I don’t want Martell to see her excellent seat and driving hips!

 

“And here appears my Tyrell now. He comes.” Something in his voice changes, becoming lower and half-hungry and overly appreciative, and he is fixed upon the chair that is being self-propelled by Willas. For a moment I realise he looks at his friend in the same manner I look at Brienne, and several things quietly click. It would be sweet, if it wasn’t Oberyn Martell. The man hasn’t got a romantic bone in his body, unless it belongs to someone else.

 

Something is wrong. He wheels his horse, digs his heels into the creature’s flank, and clears the four foot fence with ease. Bastard. He is a Dornish Zorro, and I remember that for all his attachment to Willas, I really dislike him. Mostly because he reminds me of me, before the War.

 

We follow, at more than a gentle jog, not able to keep up with the hurried canter.

 

Willas is pink in the face, and breathing heavily, his eyes wide. Oberyn slides from his horse and flings himself to his knees before his friend, taking the gloved hands in his and rubbing the leather soothingly with his thumbs. Do I call them friends? I can’t think of anything else, really, and it feels as if me and Brienne have intruded into a strangely intimate moment.

 

“My Tyrell?” There is worry painted across Oberyn’s face, and he presses his cheek to Willas’ thigh. “You are panting. Breathe with me. In and out. Shh, precious boy. Such a good boy. Take a moment and breathe.”

 

That’s...different? Brienne has that sort of pink pleased look that she gets when a couple is being ‘cute’ at each other.

 

Willas finally catches his breath, the hectic red still in his cheeks, expression veering between wild and horrified. “It’s the sword!”

 

“Which sword, sweet boy?” Oberyn is nuzzling. Definitely nuzzling.

 

“Nymeria’s Vengeance! It’s gone!”


	2. Where Things Going From Bad to Worse

The theft is terrible. Of course it is. An ancient family heirloom, the ruddy enormous sword belonging to the first ruler of Dorne, gone missing. So sad. Awful. Dreadful.However, that is nowhere near as bad as going back to the Water Gardens and seeing my father solicitously holding the arm of bloody Olenna Tyrell. Whispering in her ear. Smiling courteously and then wrapping his jacket about her wizened shoulders. Like some geriatric love birds. It is wrong and nauseating and getting more wrong the more I see.

 

“Oh. Gods.”

 

Willas shoots me a red-rimmed look of understanding. “The aged relation said she’d nip down for a little visit chez Martell, see how the young Tyrell fares, then oiled up with Tywin in tow. Been pashing all over the place! I mean, terribly lovely for them and all and jolly good for older persons viz. second chances at romance and all that rot, but-”

 

“But it’s the worst plan since Aerion Targaryen decided drinking petrol and trying to breathe fire was an excellent way to charm women.”

 

They have to be plotting something. No two ways about it. Something is rotten in the state of Dorne, as Willas might quote when he goes off on one. They’re probably working together on some world domination scheme involving marrying off various relatives in mutually agreeable ways so they can become rulers of the known universe. Maybe they’ll make Cersei marry Loras. That would be hilarious, I honestly would pay for the wedding myself just to see what would happen. I don’t know which one of them would wear the dress on the actual day, but I’m leaning towards the Tyrell. He’d probably fight her for the privilege, and Loras does look like he’d fight dirty - but then my dearest sister does bite. I bet Loras goes for the hair pulling. Though he’d probably slap her and hide behind Renly, to be honest.

 

By the Stranger, I’d slap her and hide behind Renly if I had the chance. It would give Renly a reason to be useful for once.

 

Brienne’s hand presses lightly on my shoulder. She’s noticed the almost dead pair canoodling in plain sight. Really, if they had any decency they’d be taking their groping anywhere else. And now I am thinking of my father having sex. Where’s Aerion’s petrol can when we need it, so I can set fire to my head?

 

It’s strange, but Tywin loves Brienne. He thinks her a very good match for me, ancient family and all, very loyal, good strong body for bearing lots of young non-Cersei tainted Lannister lion cubs. He likes how she is always extremely polite, and eminently sensible, and doesn’t run about being a flighty modern young woman. He’s also told me that he knows at least any children she bears will have me as the father since I’m the only one who could stomach sleeping with her. It’s one of the many times where I’ve almost punched him in the face.

 

Hate me. Hate my little brother - Tyrion gives back as good as he gets. One word about Brienne and I will remove teeth with this golden hand of mine.

 

The less said about Olenna, Queen of Thorns, the better. Living vicariously through the acts of her family, bending them to her will, and she has the ‘I am a poor innocent old woman’ act down pat. However, we all know better after her infamous assault on Willas. At least his nose seems vaguely straight these days, even if the rest of him really is not.

 

“Gosh, d’you think they’ll kill each other?”

 

“Can only hope.” We shudder collectively.

 

I truly hate my father.

 

* * *

 

“What are you eating?”

 

I try and hide the evidence, but Brienne gives me that indulgently ‘out with it’ look, and I mumble something about toast sandwiches.

 

“But it’s genius, Bri. It’s a piece of toast, you put butter and jam on both sides, then you put it between two pieces of bread. It’s the future of snacks.”

 

* * *

 

_Dr. Tarth turned out to be female, which still came as a bit of a shock._

_“So why’re you dressed like-” He gestured with his stump, waving at the mannish clothing and the short hair. “You confuse me. Stop looking like a man when you’re not. When you’re taking these many drugs, these things play havoc. Though I would probably be more traumatised if you did turn up in a dress, with a face like that and no tits? You’re useless. No man would marry you so you thought you’d be a doctor? You’re not saving face, you’re failing. Nothing you do helps, I’m still shit at everything. You preach. You ask nicely. And we’re all laughing at you because you don’t know if you want to have a cock between your legs, or own a cock between your legs. We pity you, do you know that?”_

_His tantrums were always directed at the doctor. They were a mix or frustration and pain and embarrassment and all eclipsing self-hatred, and rather than turn inwards he lashed out. Everything hurt, and everything was so hard, and his family didn’t even come to visit apart from Tyrion when he could duck out of school. Long, laboriously written left-handed love letters to Cersei were never replied to. His father, disgusted by the broken man who had returned from war, ignored him and kept settling the massive medical care bill every month. The only person who seemed to care - truly care - was this tall hideous woman who patiently kept working and working even when Jaime hissed abuse._

_The dreams grew worse. Dead men smiled, flesh sloughing from worm-pocked lips, wading through waist-deep mud and chanting his name on tongues that did not work. They told him he should be with them. That he should be with the brothers he had lost. That he escaped and did not deserve to live if the rest of them lay moldering in Godsforsaken no-man's-land with not even a septon’s prayer over their heads. Whispers of throat cutting, or hanging, and he almost sickly laughed at the suggestions even though they called to that part of him he still fought; but how could a one handed man tie a noose?_

_So he threw everything at Dr. Tarth, and she took everything quietly, and unflinchingly, and kept on with the therapy even as tears poured down the scars that marred her already ugly face._

 

* * *

 

The police show up. Inspector Selmy is old, but not Tywin old, and sports a neat white beard and kindly expression. The other? Jon Snow, the spawn of Ned Stark’s overactive youthful loins. He looks out of place with his mad curling hair and puppy-eyes, and follows the Inspector about very closely - as if we might try and judge - obviously seeking some sort of fatherly protection. Willas, who knows everyone, calls him over, clasps his hands, and beams.

 

“Jon, my dear, how on earthly earth did you end up down in Dorne?! Such a relief having you and the Inspector here!”

 

“Mr. Martell called the Keep, and asked for some Kingsguard to be sent down because of the matter being so important.” He tries to pull back, but Tyrell is so pleased to see the fellow that Snow is trapped in an affectionate hand-prison. It is obvious that the boy doesn’t know quite what to do, so I kick Willas’ chair wheel. Consider that my good deed of the day. It would have been more amusing watching the bastard trying to extricate himself in his polite, out-of-his-depth way.

 

“Stop hogging the pretty constable, invert.” I enjoy tormenting Tyrell. Even though it is incredibly easy, it means that if I fail elsewhere with annoying various Martells, I can still be assured of superiority over someone at least.

 

“Sorry Jon!” Blushing scarlet, hurriedly releasing.

 

“No, no, that’s fine.” He smiles, and is even more obnoxiously pretty. Whoever the mother was, she must have been bloody gorgeous. -there’s hardly any look of Ned Stark about him, apart from his eyes which are brown, and the ridiculous northern accent. “It’s really nice to see you too, Willas. I’m really sorry about Nymeria’s Vengeance. We’ll do everything we can - Inspector Selmy is the best in the ‘Guard.”

 

Most doddery as well. He gives the good Inspector a hero-worshipping glance, then slips off, notebook in hand.

 

“Jon is ever so nice,” Brienne ventures. “I had no idea he’s a ‘Guard.” To be honest, he hasn’t been about the club for a while. Not that I particularly care. It’s not as if Snow has any meaning to anyone, is it? He’s just there, wide eyed and solemn and in the way.

 

“Oh yes,” Willas pipes up. He knows everything about everyone, I swear. Not that he gossips like Tyrion. No one gossips like Tyrion. My brother is a fountain of knowledge, most of it pure filth, and highly entertaining when having a drink. Could do with one now. A drink, not a Tyrion. “It was either that, or biff off north to the Castle Black Highlanders. Adores the action of chasing ne’er-do-wells and horrid miscreants!” That reminds me, must get Brienne some more tartan trews as the lunatics call them beyond the wall. No idea why the Scottish can’t use normal words like the rest of the civilised world.

 

“No, my Snow, your accent. It is most difficult for me. Perhaps if you come close and say in my ear I may understand your lovely voice?” Oberyn has a transfixed and worried looking Stark bastard in his sights.

 

“How do you cope with Martell?” Surely Tyrell gets jealous?

 

“Oh, it’s only Oberyn being silly!” he pipes cheerfully, giving the annoying bastard a warm and cosy look. That’s the Martell bastard, not the Snow one. Which one is the bigger bastard? No idea.

 

Indeed, after a far too close encounter with Jon, who flees rather sharpish after the little chat and hides behind Inspector Selmy while looking vaguely harassed, Oberyn winks at his consort. He then does this strange sort of flicker with his tongue. It’s the sort of thing I’ve only seen in those dirty cine camera films that Bronn turns up with every so often. The ones that I’m also sure that Bronn directed and starred in. The ones I now refuse to watch. The ones Tyrion holds parties for, inviting all of his male friends to view via his projector due to vast amounts of naked female flesh. And Bronn. Nude women do not cancel out a Bronn cockstand.

 

Willas blushes happily, a weird soft light in his eye. “Isn’t he just a specific dream rabbit?” he asks.

 

No. No, Oberyn Martell is a filthy and louche Dornish semi-invert with a penchant for anything that moves, or at least, isn’t nailed down, or preferably not dead. He is not dreamy, rabbit like, and especially not specific. The heated looks passing between them both makes me realise, horribly, that they rather enjoy Oberyn’s wilful lechery at any other person in the general vicinity ever, and that if they didn’t have to stay downstairs for the police, they would be in their room and at it like Willas’ specific dream rabbits,  discussing the various physical merits of the poor flirted at person during the act itself.

 

Definitely time to break out the Dornish firemead. I drag Brienne off to mount a raid on the drinks cabinet.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Lannister.” Selmy nods for me to sit, calm as you like. He has occupied a small room off the main lounge for an office, and Snow is poised with his notepad and a pencil to record the interview. Every so often, he wriggles his fingers, obviously unused to having to write so much. I didn’t even realise they taught bastards how to write these days. How progressive.

 

“Inspector. Please, call me Jaime.” There is cake. Of course I take some. Since I am not bothering to compete with Oberyn Martell’s stomach muscles, since I am above all of that petty rivalry, I am going to eat what I want. What my wife doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Brienne is all about exercise, and fresh air, and healthy food, and definitely no cake. Therefore, when given the opportunity, I seize it with both hands. Literally sometimes. Do you know how many sausages you can wedge between the fingers of a prosthetic hand? I choose a square of chocolate sponge, covered in thick buttercream, and take a bite.

 

Whoever bakes in this house needs some sort of medal, or award, or kiss, or something. That is seriously tasty cake. I am so wrapped up in sucking icing off my fingers, that I don’t hear the question.

 

“Sorry?” Crumbs spray. I don’t care.

 

“Could you tell us of your whereabouts this afternoon?” Jon is paused, ready to scribble.

 

“Uh, we’d been picked up at the station by Martell’s car - Oberyn’s, not Doran’s, which you’ll recognise as the Sparrow that looks like the moving brothel parked out the front. Doran met us at the front, had our luggage taken into the house, and then we went for a walk. Shake off the cobwebs of the journey.”

 

“We?” He looks kind, the sort of old fellow that a man could just open up to about anything. He’s probably a warm father and indulgent grandfather, the sort that buys presents just because, and carries hard mints in a pocket.

 

“Me and Brienne. My wife.”

 

“Lady Tarth,” Jon adds. “She is the striking tall lady with the short blonde hair.”

 

Selmy nods. “Tarth, where do I know the na- ah! I went to school with her father, I think. Excellent man, very good head on his shoulders. We used to cry off lessons and scrump apples from the Maester’s orchard.” A chuckle, a memory brought back, and I think I have the measure of the man. I know this sort, I’ve worked with men like this before. He is going to lull, and charm, and make everyone think he is a kindly soul who is near retirement. Possibly this might be his final case before he hangs up the white cloak? He will bumble about and ask the questions everybody thinks he should, and then?

 

He’ll let them hoist themselves from their own petards.

 

The man is clever. Of course I don’t like it, why should I? Policemen are more dangerous when they’ve got something other than sand between their ears, when they get ideas and thoughts and actually bother to think about things. I’ll telegram Tyrion and ask if he has anything on the dear Inspector. If anyone knows about the Kingsguard, it will be my little brother. Half of them probably own the bugger any number of favours, he’s got connections in the lowest places after all. In the meantime, I just have to be careful about anything I say. Not that I’ve done anything wrong, but I’ve never trusted the ‘Guards. Not since I was one of them before the War. I know how they operate, and if they can blame someone more easily than finding the actual wrongdoer, they cheerfully will, but the worst ones are those who seem able to peel away all the layers and see what actually makes a man tick.

 

I tick for no man.

 

“What then, after the walk? Oh, you must ask your wife to remind me to her father. What a co-incidence, eh?” He chooses a slice of Oldtown tart, putting it neatly on a folded napkin before him. “Very nice of them to provide food. Want some, Jon?”

 

Curls sproing, and it seems that Snow has turned down any sort of food. More for me, then.

 

“Quite the co-incidence, yes.” I shoot him a smile, still working Selmy through in my mind. Snow writes and winces even with the shorthand cipher he is illegibly scratching. “We went through the gardens, past the pissing boy statue, and saw Oberyn on his horse in the sand school. Went over, said hello, and then Tyrell came out and told us the sword was missing.”

 

“And now did Mr. Martell and Mr. Tyrell react?"

 

“Martell abandoned his horse, grabbed the wheelchair handles, and shoved Tyrell back towards the Water Gardens as quick as he could. Oberyn seemed angry, and Willas looked like he was going to cry.”

 

“They seem on top form now.” Selmy checks on Snow. “From the way that they were looking at my constable.”

 

As much as I loathe Martell, I’m not going to drop them in anything messy. Neither of them are the sort to care for a bloody sword. Tyrell is too up his own arse with intellectual pursuits, and there are no parts of the weapon Oberyn can seduce. I sort of understand the behaviour, I’ve done it myself - not try and roger Jon Snow, obviously, he’s too common, male, and non-Brienne-y - but dealing with an issue by ignoring that the damned thing happened. Not defending Brienne’s friends would make her upset, and I have already hurt her enough for several lifetimes. I owe her. I grit my teeth, gird my loins, and prepare to be nice. Two good deeds in one day, must be some sort of record.

 

“I can get it, sort of.” Tapping my hand, which looks even more ridiculous glowing gold in this little room. I need to go over to Sidcup and get a proper prosthetic sorted out. Maybe one with a hook, which’d be great for fancy dress parties and random fishing adventures.

 

“It is a bit like losing a hand. You deal with a shock that is so huge, you’re almost convinced you still have the hand and everything is fine. You act normal, even if at the back of your mind you’re aware that you’re missing something incredibly important. Maybe in their shock if they pretend the theft never happened, and the Blade of the Dorneing or whatever it’s called is still there, it’ll all be fine in the end? It is careless, losing a weapon that’s been in the family for so long, isn’t it? Ghosts of ancestors all pissed off. Not a happy thing, really.” I really hope something comes and haunts Martell. I’d give my right hand to hear him scream like a girl, but he’d probably just try and shag the spirit instead.

 

Selmy regards me calmly, then offers me one of the cigarillos in the case he keeps in his breast pocket. I shake my head. “You really dislike Martell, don’t you?”

 

“Don’t you? He wants to debauch your constable.” Not giving in to that game. I’m not giving myself any sort of motive. It’s easy enough to turn it back on to the Inspector himself. Too easy, maybe?

 

“Jon’s had worse thrown at him.”

 

“Yeah, having Ned Stark as a father, for a start.” Ah, a flinch and a faint gritting of teeth! It feels nice to get the pretty little Snow bristling. Of course it doesn’t help me one jot, but I like to assert my authority over certain people, especially in professional environments. I was an excellent captain, you know. I have medals, plural.

 

“Thank you, Captain. ”

 

Ah, shit. I hate it when people call me that, especially if it is meant in the way Selmy means. He looks me up and down, surreptitiously, appraising, thinking. He has researched - he could have found anything on me, with the power of the Kingsguard at his disposal. Just hope to the Warrior he never gets to look at my hospital records. I really could do with not being questioned about Sidcup, but I have seen Selmy types using any tiny thing to pick at suspects before. Break ‘em to find the truth. Even if the truth has nothing to do with someone you just tear apart and destroy. Truth and dedication to the law will out.“Could you please send your father in.”

 

And that means I have to talk to Tywin. The bastard - Selmy, not Snow - is doing this on purpose. It’s clever. You’ve got to admire the techniques, haven’t you? Set the suspects at each other's throats, and let them do all the bloody work for you.

 

Wonderful. I knew we should have gone abroad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realised who Oberyn reminds me of, at least looks-wise. If anyone plays the Dragon Age games, he is channeling Dorian, though Oberyn will say his moustache is far more awesome.


	3. Where Others are Met, and Olenna Enjoys Herself

* * *

 

 

“Who do you think took it?”

 

Brienne sips lemonade. We’ve escaped onto the verandah. I have liberated an okay-ish ‘97 Valyrian red from the cellar, where they keep many wines captive, almost like slavery, so really I am doing the Father’s work here. I deserve it after talking to Daddy Lannister, even if it was a brief ‘Selmywantsyoubye,’ followed by tactical retreat to hide behind Brienne. Slightly corked but I’ve had worse. The wine, not Tywin. Though by the sour expression on his face, it’s hard to tell sometimes. It’s a decent enough vintage when properly kept, but Doran needs to execute the sommelier or whoever looks after his booze. Seriously? Turning the bottles? Have they been dragged up? Foul acts committed upon innocent bottles does not a wine cellar make.

 

“To be honest, Bri, not us, not the cripple or the pervert. Not Doran, Anyone else though, I’m not sure of.” Fishing bits of cork from the bottle, I drink directly from the neck. There’s no point dirtying an incriminating glass, is there? I can blame the missing plonk on a random easily replaceable servant, like Snow.

 

“Please don’t call them that.”

 

“It’s what they are, wench. Like you’re ugly and I’m broken.” Her hand finds my knee. She hates me talking so bluntly. Not because it’s wrong, of course it isn’t. She’s still hideous even if I love her and think her the most beautiful woman I know. Tyrell can’t walk. Martell shags all. I’m still buggered up and handless even if her love gets us through the bad times. We are as we are, and if more people in the world were honest, then we wouldn’t be in any sort of mess, would we? I’d probably then still be with Cersei, living on the continent in disgrace though with more than three offspring born of incest, so perhaps I’ll revise that to sometimes secrets are a useful idea to have if my sister is involved?

 

“But why steal the Vengeance? It’s so famous it can’t be sold, no one could reforge it as no one knows how. It doesn’t make sense.”

 

“Someone wants an impressive wall hanging for their private bathroom, probably. Have a piss, admire the priceless weapon that you had stolen to order. Selmy’s good. I don’t like him, he’s clever. Be careful around him, wench, right?”

 

Something in the tone of my voice seems to rouse her from a daze, and she frowns, just a little crease between her non-existent eyebrows. If she was anyone else, Brienne would have painted them in. She’d be all red lips and smeary black eye make up, not scrubbed clean and honest with her comfortable tweed and shoes she steals from me. She’s wearing my tan oxfords. My favourite shoes. Shows how much I love her if I let her wantonly occupy most of my wardrobe. Maybe I should steal her underwear? She wears these little silk camisoles under her shirts because she doesn’t need a brassiere, all slippery and nice on the skin. Maybe I will go and get her matching knickers? Stop her stealing my pants. Do you ever get the feeling that you should just go sod it, and just merge wardrobes? I’m very near that. And I’d get to wear the silky vests, which is a massive plus. A man can have sensitive nipples, you know? Cotton can be chafing.

 

“We’ve got nothing to worry about, Jaime?” A pause, that little wrinkle marking her brow deepening. “Have we? Jaime?”

 

“No, nothing wench. I am not an international cat burglar on the quiet. Do you know how difficult it is to break and enter when your hand could fall off at any time? I just don’t trust the ‘Guard, you know that.” I’d be an awful thief, though the lack of fingerprints could work in my favour.

 

A nod. “I know.”

 

I sling an arm about her shoulders and swig more wine. Companionable silence settles between us, like a shroud.

 

* * *

 

_“Mr. Lannister?”_

 

_Blank anger. He tasted the bitter metallic hatred, felt it crawling in his throat and head._

 

_Fabric rustled, the bed dipped, and then he was being carefully held. It was obvious that she rarely hugged anyone or was hugged in return. The doctor smelled of iodine - hands yellowy-brownish in whorls and under clipped-short nails - and shoe polish. Starched white coats. For a moment the temptation was to pull back; Cersei never held you like this, the voices taunted, the ones that first came in dreams and then decided to torment him during too-long waking hours. For a moment it seemed he should spit poison at the clumsy girl trying to give some sort of comfort, and retreat back into that crafted shell of bitter laughter and scathing commentary._

 

_But she was gentle. Always so gentle, and once, when she smiled and he had involuntarily smiled back because he’d tied his own bloody shoelace, Jaime had been stunned about how those glorious blue eyes sparkled like London topaz. She was as far away from his bitch twin sister as anyone could be. No serpentine curves, or glossy mane falling down her back. No killer-sharp sneer. Just a kind, enormous, encouraging girl who fought and drove and supported the boys in her care. She believed in them._

 

_In him._

 

_He soaked every ‘well done,’ and ‘good job,’ like a sponge. He found himself wanting to please her, to earn those slightly crooked grins of pleasure and praise. No one - ever - had taken such time and effort to teach Jaime anything in his life before. School had been difficult and boring, the lessons mostly not making sense to one who learning did not come naturally, much to his father’s chagrin. His examination results proved shocking, and once the ‘Guards had their fill of him; the army had taken him not on grades but on the strength of his ancient Lannister name. What else could a man do if he was deemed wanting intellectually? Of course he made Lieutenant quickly. He possessed the charm and and confidence, the straight-backed ease of manner that appealed not just to fellow officers but also to those he commanded. He was fearless, and overly-brave, and possessed the sort of charisma that saw his troops follow him over the top on the dawn he lost everything, and mostly to their deaths. When his hand was taken, so was any shred of achievement. What was left? A few medals. A rank he despised. Survivor’s guilt. Broken, and abandoned, and when everything grew too great?_

 

_He dragged himself back from the edge._

 

_Not because he wanted to live. No. He just knew that he could not let Dr. Tarth down. The innocent woman, who believed the best of everyone. Who was he to take that from her?_

 

_“Cersei. She’s-” He handed her the crumpled letter, the destroyed wedding invitation. She knew about his twin. She knew everything. His black rants refused to be contained, whether directed at others or himself._

 

_“I’m so sorry Jaime. I’m so sorry.” Her over-wide frog-like mouth brushed his forehead, and she rocked him and rocked him until the bromide finally took hold._

 

* * *

 

Who thought socialising with Roose Bolton could be any sort of good idea? He’s spouting forth about frigging leeches yet again. At least he has the sense to have a quick discussion about flaying between the Leech Lectures, which turn out to be a bit more interesting than I’d give credit for. The way he talks about peeling flesh, and what exactly the sheaths over tendons look like, is disgusting and fascinating in turn. He corners me and asks if I had taken time to examine my wrist when it was blown open, saying something about an excellent learning opportunity and how he’d have liked to have seen it.

 

Well, it’s a nice change from people either avoiding the issue or asking what happened. Quite refreshing in his weirdness in a way, but still insanely creepy. His wife chuckles at his monologue. She isn’t what I expected. Bolton’s wife should be as clinical as him, but she is very fat, and shockingly pretty with her soft blonde hair and pale eyes, and she has all the life he squashes back within himself.

 

“Oh Roosie, you are so silly! I’m sure Jaime doesn’t want to hear about your little babies, does he? Why don’t you come and sit by me and tell me how many stitches I need to cast on? You’re so much better at counting the pattern than me.” She’s pregnant, I really don’t want to even think about the hows and whens and how the hells, and is forever knitting tiny clothes in cream and white.

 

My kids never were that small. Not that I saw them when they were born, I was off arresting people and being a good Captain of the ‘Guard. Of course, at the time they were supposedly Robert’s - still are, in the eyes of the law with the birth certificates and all - but we (and that includes Brienne) always knew. Even Joffrey was mine, although wouldn’t it be lovely to blame someone else for that little shit? I suppose I’m not even sorry he’s dead. He was just one of those children who came out wrong. Brienne says it might have something to do with his bodily make-up due to me and Cersei’s blood being the same, but if that’s the case how come ‘Cella and Tommen are perfect? Maybe, like Targaryens, one child or more a generation is sacrificed to madness, to make sure the others spawn right?

 

Roosie does as his fat wife tells him, settling next to her on the settee and looking at the printed pamphlet with those eerie eyes of his. His lips move as he counts, and his hand creeps almost guiltily and holds her plump little fingers. Such a strange dynamic between them. She is all bubbles and lemon cakes and ivory tea dresses, and he is black and leeches and severe lectures about how to remove the central nervous system without killing the victim. Walda is the one who has the power, though. She wears the trousers, not literally thank Gods. I don’t think the world is ready for Walda Bolton nee Frey to venture out in slacks.

 

“Aw, Roosie, aren’t you two sweet?” His glare is daggers, even as Walda beams at me.

 

“I’m four months along! Isn’t it awfully exciting? If we have a boy, he shall be named Domeric. We think it will be a boy, don’t we? But if it’s a little girl, we’re definitely going for Bethany.”

 

After the dead heir and the dead first wife. How...Roose Bolton. I’m surprised he hasn’t got the corpses nicely preserved in pickling brine in the pantry, next to the gherkins.

 

* * *

 

 

“Please, call me Dany,” she says. Tiny, white-haired little thing, favouring flowing blue silk and silver on her fingers and in her hair. She has a pendant at her throat - three dragons made of different metals; rose gold, blackened iron, and verdigris bronze. Beautifully made, though quite abstract as is the fashion these days. Bit like her, really.

 

“Jaime Lannister.”

 

“Aren’t we related somewhere?”

 

“Probably. Lannisters tended to marry into most of the major families.”

 

The Targaryens are extinct now, apart from this small young woman with the astonishing purple eyes and her oldest brother, Rhaegar. They are the sort of family that always gets a proper nutcase in every generation. Dany’s brother seemed to get the family heirloom of being completely loopy for this one, and it killed him. Like his father. And their two of the great uncles, and several female relations. You never know with a Targaryen if they are going to be perfectly nice one moment, and then try and murder you the next. I blame systematic inbreeding, but to be perfectly honest, who am I to judge?

 

She diplomatically doesn’t mention that I was the one that arrested her father. I diplomatically don’t mention that he tried to set fire to me and then burned to death in the cell. Have you ever tried putting out a corpse? It. Will. Not. Stop. Burning! All very sensible of both of us. It’s still a bit of a sore spot.

 

“Are you here on holiday?”

 

She has eyebrows that are darker than her hair, and they give her a sort of earnest expression. I forget how young she is half of the time. Barely older than ‘Cella.

 

“Mr. Martell asked me for some advice regarding some dragonglass he found in the family vaults.” Always dragons with Targaryen. This one is as obsessed as the rest; it’s almost like they believe that the great flying things existed. Dany turns out to own geckos - building up to bearded dragons, such a surprise -  and is an authority on obsidian and other bits and pieces forged by nature’s fire.

 

“Don’t go near Snow.” I indicate the bastard who is taking a quick moment to have a cup of tea, warily watching the rest of us. “You’ll melt him.”

 

“Ice and fire,” she says, cryptically, and she watches the poor boy with a calmness that makes me quite uneasy for the probably lucky bastard’s virginity. He’s that shy around women that if he has got his end away it would be some sort of miracle. Or he paid for it. One of the two. If I know Snow, however, he’d never do anything with a whore due to honour and sacrifice and it being against the law which he upholds as sacred. You know the type. The Brienne type. So he, by default, must be as pure driven as his name suggests.

 

“He’s Ned Stark’s boy.”

 

“Is he really?” The arch of a black eyebrow, and I think I’m out of my depth with this one.

 

She is swept away by a tall, well-built and red-haired man in valet togs who wraps a red and black stole about her with an almost fatherly care. It is embroidered with dragons.

 

* * *

 

Brienne has disappeared. Perhaps Martell has stolen her for his harem? Do I need to go and smash his face in?

 

I know I have to stop this. The wench, however, is my right hand. She is what I gained when I lost the actual fleshy bit she has become. When I can’t see her and I don’t know where she is, I feel this cold panic settle in my stomach, this rushing in my head telling me she may never come back and I’ll be alone again. But then she always does return, and I try and make out that her being gone doesn’t affect me, but, dammit, she’s clever is my Brienne. She can see through anything I try and hide behind. She’s seen what I really am, she just has to look at how I stand or move, and she knows.

 

Olenna glides over in her ancient way, taking my arm. She smells of lavender powder and rosewater.

 

“Tywin took Brienne for a turn about the gardens.”

 

Do I get to smash his face in? Sweet temptation! We follow suit, out onto the grass and into a warmish mid-morning.

 

“Are you shagging my father?” Olenna isn’t the sort of woman to approach with tact, if you want some sort of actual answer. Oh, she plays some sort of game where people make out that she’s this nice but amusingly sharp-tongued old woman, and she pretends she can cope with talking to insignificant fools who will not contribute to the rise of the Tyrell family. All barbed wire wrapped in roses, this one. I can see she was once beautiful, Margaery beautiful, with a fine bone-structure and a naturally sultry look about her. But, ugh. She has touched my father in intimate places. She needs bleaching.

 

“Would you like me to, Jaime?” She smiles as I cringe. Her grip is tight enough that I can’t escape, and Olenna loves that she’s got me captive. “Such a shame you didn’t marry Margie. You’d have been a striking couple.”

 

“I prefer to keep my balls on my body and not in her handbag.”

 

“Of course, being married to your step-niece wouldn’t have fazed you, would it? You do, after all, like keeping your family very close.”

 

The bitch. She smirks delicately, content in the deepness of the sting. Then the first part of what she says finally hits, and I stop dead in my tracks, a chill settling.

 

“Step niece?” She has to be joking!

 

“Oh dear, has Tywin not told you? Naughty man.”

 

She picks an invisible piece of lint off my sleeve, glee and sadism sparkling.

 

“Well I’m sure he’s only waiting for an appropriate time to ask you to be the best man, so don’t you worry your pretty little head about that at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my insomnia might have finally broken (finally), I may be slightly slower at writing and publishing. Also, since AsbestosHand is home for the weekend, I will be enjoying having him mooching about the house and watching too much Homes Under the Hammer with him. Next chapter is mostly written. Arrests, angry family members, and Cleganes abound!
> 
> Also, just for a bit of clarification as it was kindly pointed out I went a bit wonky: I meant Selmy went to school with Brienne's father, and rather than step-sister, it should have been step-niece. These are all corrected now, thanks to turquoisecity for acting as a very helpful semi-beta type there! Also, Brienne's title of Lady Tarth is a courtesy title, as she is the heir of Baron Tarth. Selwyn Lives! Woohoo!


	4. Where Arrests are Made, and Brienne is Ill

* * *

 

 

They arrest someone the next day. Dany protests her innocence, expression stony and lips pressed tightly together, even as she is being put into confinement. Since Dorne has no prison, she is basically under house arrest at the Water Garden, supposedly until Nymeria’s Vengeance is recovered.

 

Her redheaded valet makes a whispered telephone call.

 

It’s not her. For fuck’s sake. For one, a little bit of a girl like her would have great difficulty in lifting a broadsword that’s half as tall as her again. Also, why would a Targaryen want yet another Valyrian blade? She inherited one of the best collections in the country. Yes, the bloody sword is priceless, but it isn’t as historically important as half of her little stash. Dragons collect treasures, they hoard things, but honestly? Selmy says that she used her knowledge on obsidian to prompt Doran’s invite, but something doesn’t add up in this whole tale. Everything is so neat, and trite, that it makes my teeth itch.

 

And? Selmy knows I know. I know he knows I know.

 

“Quick word, please, Mr. Lannister.” At least there isn’t any of that ‘Captain’ rubbish. He looks overly tired, and oddly thoughtful, looking at me as if appraising a nice bit of steak and kidney pudding.

 

I’m tired; Brienne is feeling unwell again, the sickness has been on-and-off since the previous day, and I’ve been spending half of the morning rubbing her back and bringing her water. Fending off her unwarranted apologies. She’s the worst patient ever, even more annoying than me, since she refuses to admit she feels awful and then is embarrassed for being an ‘inconvenience.’ She never is, idiotic wench. I like feeling useful, and I like looking after her, so her being a bit off-colour is a treat that I savour. Obviously I don’t like her being sick, but needs must when your wife is a bloody saint and martyr.

 

“What do you want, Selmy?”

 

“Your help.” I pause at that. That’s unexpected. The man shrugs, shoulders shifting under his tan mackintosh. He looks a little tired, shadowed under the eyes, and slightly frustrated. The usual ‘Guard inspector look that I’ve seen a hundred, no, thousand times before.

 

“And?”

 

“Now an arrest has been made, I’m hoping that whoever stole the sword will relax, try and get the thing off the island. Since you move in the right circles, maybe you could keep your ears open for me? We do, however, now have the entire place locked down since the local division from the mainland arrived.” There were noticeably more uniformed officers prowling about, that had not gone unnoticed.

 

“So the girl-”

 

“Innocent, but she still has a very good motive. Enough of one to make it seem that I’ve been fooled into believing she is the thief.” He offers me a pear drop and I take it. Tastes lovely, has this powdered sugar around the shell, and it’s all nail-polish smelling and sweet tasting. “Better than the others I can come up with at the moment. I thought you might have stolen it for Lady Tarth, but even if you pretend, you still have a ‘Guard’s conscience.”

 

“Still a better man than most of the ‘Guards,” I point out, crunching on the sweet. “Even if I am a sarcastic one-handed arse.”

 

He doesn’t disagree. I don’t expect him to. “Things have changed since your time, Mr. Lannister. Under my watch I have weeded out the worst, and recruited men more suited to the position of Kingsguard. We’re a far cleaner force now.” I believe him, just about. “You could always come back, you know? We need chaps like you.”

 

What good would a one-handed copper be? I wouldn’t need a truncheon, I could just kneecap criminals with the prosthetic. Seriously though? The idea is intriguing, I suppose. And I was brilliant at it, after all. Maybe once we go home, and I talk with Brienne, and we laugh about the insane offer, I might consider it after all?

* * *

 

_“That one is the Smith. I like to think he’s going to attack the Maiden with his massive hammer.”_

 

_He pointed at a vaguely blob shaped collection of stars, trying to remember if that was correct or not. The starlight - no moon, not properly for another half-month now - made the golden hand less gaudy, silvering the metal into something altogether less ridiculous. If Jaime had his time again, he knew he would have chosen one of the normal prosthetics rather than trying to appeal to Cersei. Perhaps he wondered if the showiness of the piece would make not having the hand less awful to her? But the estrangement, which he knew had started the moment the shrapnel tore through his wrist and changed the world for him, yawned wider with each passing month. Some days he didn’t think of his dearest twin at all._

 

_Next to him, Dr. Tarth tried to follow the angle of his arm. She took him out of the ward daily now, convinced Jaime needed something to do rather than just sit and stew. Keeping his mind busy, she said, to take it off matters that had set his recovery back weeks. He learned how to bandage and where the best injection sites for various drugs lay, the doses of bromide. The nurses were more receptive to Jaime, more likely to do as Dr. Tarth asked if he were there. They, like much of the staff, he realised, were unsure of the good doctor. She was unlike any they had ever met._

 

_“Tell me about yourself, wench.” An order. She knew everything about Jaime. What hair product he preferred. How he hated rice pudding, unless it had jam in it. How his sweet tooth ruled his life if he let it. His childhood. His fears. Everything._

 

_“My name is Dr. Tarth.”_

 

_“What’s your first name?”_

 

_She paused, still gazing into the sky. In parts, where the twilight still lingered and had not grown to night, the rich blue was similar to her eyes. He found himself comparing different shades of the colour to them. Not rich enough. A bit grey. Too dark. He’d not found a perfect match, yet._

 

_"It’s Brienne.”_

 

_"Nice meeting you.” He offered the left handed shake. “Did you know I worked with your father during the war?” Which was over. It had been over for almost six weeks now. He’d given Dr. Tarth - Brienne - a pair of cufflinks for the Christmas just past. She had floundered, saying she was so sorry, she’d not got him anything, but Jaime had insisted putting them into her shirt sleeves there and then. Tiny swords, with sapphire chips, set in silver. Brienne liked swords. He’d bribed Tyrion into buying them on the sly, and his beloved little brother had commented that Jaime had never bought Cersei any present as thoughtful._

 

 _“_ _I wondered if you had. He mentioned a Lannister once or twice when he wrote.”_

 

_“I can see where you got your ridiculous height and enormous nose from.” The barbs were less, though, they had slowly evolved from wanting to hurt to wanting to tease. She smiled at them more. She called him Lannister and told him he was vain. They had settled into a rather easy state of cameraderie._

 

_Jaime had never really had a friend before. Not one like this, at least._

 

_“What else about you, apart from your father being Brigadier-General Selwyn Tarth, Baron and  DCM, the better of my commanding officers most possibly because he has something approaching a brain. Not that you inherited it. My idiot wench.”_

 

_Her elbow found his ribs, and they lay in companionable silence, both grinning in the darkness._

 

_“Jaime?” She used his Godsgiven name more than his surname these days, although just in private, when it was only the two of them. Always Mr. Lannister at the hospital._

 

_“Hmm?”_

 

_“Thank you for Christmas.” She leaned over him, expression tender and warm, before kissing him lightly on the cheek. “It was very kind of you to think of me.”_

 

_“How can I not think of you? You’re always there, massive and bossy, making me do exercise and scolding me for eating chocolate!” But his fingers found the wreck of her cheek, lightly stroking the poor, torn flesh._

 

_She never wore any other cufflinks after that._

 

* * *

 

Rhaegar Targaryen is taller than his sister, which isn’t that difficult. His silver hair is affectedly long, and he wears red and black velvet, like some throwback to the last century. Perhaps Viserys wasn’t the only lunatic of this crop of little Dragons? He is also entirely apoplectic, and rather older than you’d imagine. Since he is so stupidly handsome and Targaryens tend to look as if they are stuck in their mid twenties until age finally catches them, many don’t tend to see the lines at the corners of his eyes and lips. He’s not Tywin old, obviously, but maybe a couple of years on me? The age gap between the siblings is such that he could actually be the right age to be Dany’s father. Which, given Targaryens as a whole, is possibly the case.

 

“I demand to see Daenerys!” It’s all very flashy, and dramatic. He’s always been one for grand gestures, has Rhaegar. Look at what happened with Lyanna Stark. Whipped her away from that fat knobhead Robert Baratheon, and then got her thoroughly pregnant, just because he was swept up in a moment. Lyanna lives somewhere near Winterfell and adopts large numbers of stray dogs these days. Very much not married. It makes me wonder; was Rhaegar so good that she is ruined for everyone else, or so bad that she prefers the company of animals to humans?

 

Wonder what happened to the kid?

 

“My lord.” They don’t hold any titles any more, do they? The redheaded valet, however, seems to think otherwise. “She is well, they are guarding her room like she is some sort of common criminal.”

 

Targaryen sniffs, then waves a regal hand. “Take me to her, Connington. Before I do something I might regret.” His cane, which I suspect conceals a sword as that would be Rhaegar Targaryen all over, has tiny little silver dragons attached to the wood, with an extra large one on top to form the handle. The silversmith even inset little amethyst eyes, just like the ones that grace Dany and her big brother. This is what multigenerational incest does to people. Obsessive behaviour over bloodlines and sodding dragons!

 

“Master,” and that’s now just getting plain weird. “I’ve been looking after her, you mustn’t fret so. Think of your blood pressure! Shall I get you a nice cup of tea, and then we can go and see her together? I can organise a relaxing massage for later if you are very tense? I have brought the rosehip oil.”

 

“Connington, you do look out for me, don’t you? Don’t ever go off with other employers again, d’you hear?” The redhead had ended up valeting for Willas for a few weeks, between Clegane going off to get married and Martell swooping in to stake his claim. Gossip (Tyrion) said there was some sort of argument over a banjolele. Something about Rhaegar buying one, and Connington expressing that someone of Targaryen blood should play a more elegant musical instrument such as the cello, and, well, the valet quit in a fit of pique at being snubbed in orchestral matters and then played house with Tyrell for a bit. Due to the shock of losing his gentleman’s gentleman, the Dragon got rid of the banjolele, and there has been bliss ever since. Or some shit like that. You couldn’t make it up, could you?

 

“Your welfare, happiness, and good health is my life, sir. I shall never leave your side.” The valet gives Rhaegar a most adoring look, which goes completely ignored by the receiver. 

 

“No. You’re not allowed to go anywhere. You’re mine.”

 

“ _Very_ good, sir.” Connington glows. I suppose if you’re in love with someone and they either don’t know or don’t care, making it so you are totally indispensible and forever in their presence is better than being spurned?

 

Rhaegar isn’t thick. Just self-obsessed. It’s a Targaryen thing, we’re all used to it.

 

* * *

 

“Do you want a drink?” I wield the iced water jug like a mace, and Brienne nods. At least some colour has come back to her cheeks, but I’m oddly relieved that she’s taken my advice to stay in bed and nap. Her hair is all over the place, face flushed, and isn’t it brilliant that the awful ashy pallor of this morning has gone? The water stays down this time, though I am clutching a basin for her, just in case.

 

“Thanks Jaime, I’m so sor-”

 

"If you apologise again, I’m going to pour the water on you, wench, rather than in the mug.”

 

A little smile, hurrah! Just a tiny flicker, and she holds my hand a smidge tighter. Even if Brienne tries to be the brave warrior when she is ill, when she finally admits she’s unwell, she likes me to be in touching distance. She says it makes her feel less rough. I think the true reason is more she wants to infect me, to give her the excuse to get off her sick bed and do some nursing instead.

 

“Look, will you see a doctor?”

 

“I am one myself, Jaime, I see me every day.” Frustrating woman! Settling next to her, I give her the puppy-eyes.

 

“And you are the best one ever, but when you’re sick, you need looking after.”

 

“When we get home, I promise I’ll go and see someone if I’m still not well.”

* * *

 

Tarly, the only person Dorne has approaching a doctor, is round and pink - rather like an overly-shy marshmallow - and stupidly young. He has just finished checking Dany Targaryen at her brother’s insistence, for any physical or mental ailments caused by the stress of incarceration. He does love drama - Rhaegar is milking this like a crazed cowhand before a wary herd.

 

I wait until Tarly has rounded the corner and on his own before I pounce.

 

“Argh!” Leaping in the air like a hyperactive salmon, he reacts to the shock by flinging his black briefcase. I catch it handily, ironically enough.

 

“Tarly, I presume?” I think he is on the edge of tears, chest heaving as he forces himself to not hyperventilate.

 

“Um. Sorry about throwing my bag at you, you surprised me. Sorry. Um. Yes. Tarly. Sam. Please, call me Sam. Sorry about the bag. I didn’t hurt you, did I? Gosh.” Many things are less wet than this nervy young man. Oceans, for example. Tropical thunderstorms. Excitable young girls finally meeting the moving picture actor Khal Drogo when he is in that costume that comprises of just artfully arranged leather straps.

 

“My wife is not well, Please Call Me Sam, and I want some advice without you examining her. She explicitly asked that I didn’t call a doctor, but she is an idiot when she’s sick, and technically you just happened to be here without anything to do with me whatsoever, so I’ll just give you the symptoms and you can diagnose her from that.” The jelly before me quails, looking at his feet, mumbling something about hypocrisy and oaths, and sounds frustratingly like Brienne does when I pump her for juicy gossip about her patients.

 

“I-I can’t, sir, I can’t give a diagnosis without looking a-at the p-patient.” Stammering now. He has obviously seen my expression darkening with every syllable he speaks. I cross my arms, watching him with prickling displeasure.

 

“Yes you can.” Oh, little Tarly, I can bully the sorts of you into doing whatever I need. Especially when Brienne is involved.

 

“No, I r-reall-”

 

“Yes. You. Can.” I speak softly, and while I don’t carry a large stick, a metaphorical clout about the head with a metal hand is often encouragement enough. “You will listen, and you will tell me what is wrong with my wife. I am a very important man, Tarly, to the point where I will cheerfully destroy you, your family, and your career if you do not decide to help me. If you prefer, we can do this the easy way. I tell you the symptoms, you tell me what the hell is wrong with Brienne, and then I can give you a large monetary donation to your clinic. We Lannisters always pay our debts. Or, I can see if I can get some muscle tone back into my right arm by repeatedly lifting you up by the throat until you agree.” I smile. It’s nice to end a threat on a pleasant note. Not that I am usually the sort to do this, not any more at least. Brienne’s goodness tends to rub off when you’re exposed to it, a little bit like accidentally brushing against a chalky blackboard. Really annoying, but have you tried to get it out of your clothing?. But when I am worried, and she is ill, and I am not at home to request my very expensive physician to attend, and when there is no hope of getting anyone better than this fat, simpering fool, then I might forget myself. Just a little.

 

Tarly swallows delicately. He’s thinking of making a run for it. The physical reality, however, makes him reconsider.

 

“Um. Yes. Yes, sir?”

 

“Good.”

 

I propel him into a sitting room, and call for tea. The ubiquitous cake, which apparently Walda Frey has been making - she is apparently a stress baker - beckons to us both.

 

“The chocolate sponge is really good. Have a piece.” He takes it, warily, still watching me with huge eyes.

 

“T-thank you, sir.”

 

“Call me Jaime, Call Me Sam.”

 

He sits quietly and eats most of the cake as I tell him the symptoms. Tea is brought and sipped at, I manage to save a poor scone from his rapacious devouring. I am impressive when it comes to demolishing sweet things, but this boy is twice as good again. Maybe I should ask for some tips? He eats delicately for a big man, all neat fingers and wiping his hand on a napkin between bites. The medical talk settles him a little, for all his baby walrus fear.

 

“So, she mostly vomits in the mornings, and finds it very difficult to keep any sort of fluid down. No fever, no chills, she feels quite drained, sometimes has a sore back. Is she off her food?”

 

“A little, but in an odd way. Brienne loves healthy things, but I caught her eating a piece of fudge earlier.”

 

Tarly’s mouth curves slightly, and it is a piercingly sweet look on his round face. All of the tension floods out of him like one of those enormous Yi’Tian tidal waves. “Sir, I really do not think there is much to worry about at all, I have a little idea what could be the cause, but I wouldn’t know unless I examined Mrs. Lannister-” Brienne hates being called that. Quite often I sing it at her when she is trying to do sensible things, like those foolish flexible exercises. Idiotic looking, the benefits for me are very much appreciated, but her expression when I put her off her stride is all worth while. Maybe I should have a go, see how bendy I can really get?

 

“She won’t have that.”

 

“Then I have to say that I cannot be sure about a possible cause, but from what you have told me, your wife may be,” and he goes scarlet, as if what he is about to say is quite shocking from a man to another. “In the family way.”

 

“In the fa-?”

 

Oh. Oh shit. Oh fuck

 

My heart smashing against my ribs, I sprint out of the room and up the grand staircase, two steps at a time.

* * *

  
“Brienne? Bri-?!”

 

She isn’t there. The windows out onto the balcony are open, the curtains drifting delicately in the warm breeze. Silence. Just nothing. The letter that is left on the pillow is created using  cut-out letters from _The Times._ If the situation were different, I would be laughing at the sheer cliche of it all.

 

_I know you. You were a Guard. She told me._

_Want her back? Help me escape._

_Unless you want her back bit by bit._

_You choose._

 

All I can hear is someone screaming. That someone, I realise muddily, is me.


	5. Where It All Ends, For Better and For Worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning - this gets really quite fucked up. I've had to change the rating and everything. All's well that ends well, but...yeah. Thanks ever so much for reading, it's been a wild ride from where it started. Really appreciate it!

* * *

 

 

Got to find...no. Where? Selmy grabs my arm and I tell him to fuck off. All his fault. Plans. His plans. Brienne? I need my wife. Tarly is there. Father. Daddy dearest says something and I don’t understand because everything is rushing in my head and where is Brienne? Feel sick. Want to kill the bastard. Not Dad. Not this time. Giggling now. It’s funny. The first time I don’t want to stab Tywin is because I want to stab someone more.

 

“Jaime, we’ll fi-”

 

I tell Selmy to fuck off again. It feels nice. Brienne has to be here. She’s big. Can’t take her far. She’s having my baby. Someone has taken my wife and child and I am going to rip their heart out just by slamming my hand through their ribcage. Tarly has a needle. No. No! Not happening! Stronger than them though Snow tries a rugger tackle and I’m out onto the balcony and down onto the grass and perhaps I’ve buggered my ankle with the fall but I am still running. Somewhere close but not the house. Somewhere quiet.

 

Keep going. Pain up my shin. Fuck pain! Only pain, had worse. Hand might come in useful when I beat the fucker to death with it and see all the blood fly from my arm for a different purpose now. Good idea Lannister. Taste blood. Bitten my lip. No matter. Brienne needs me. So much blood it turns the seas incarnadine. Fuck Tyrell and his quotations.

 

Footsteps behind me. Snow. White as the driven. He’s not stopping me. I snarl at him and he raises his hands placatingly, says something about helping and finding Lady Tarth and he won’t stop me. Probably can’t. Weighs about half of me. Most of me is made of gold and sugar and cakes and if I find Bri I promise to all of the Gods I will eat sensibly and not binge and try not to punch my father. Just let me find her. Please.

 

* * *

 

_“Well then.” The pride in her eyes shone, and Brienne was beautiful._

 

_He loved her._

 

_The realisation hit Jaime like a freight train to the solar plexus; Dr. Tarth; ungainly, massive, scarred Dr. Tarth? Was possibly the most wonderful and striking and glorious person he had ever known. Her crooked smile and horse-teeth just radiated goodness and honesty. The scars? Showed she was a trooper, an Amazon, a worthy opponent. Her height meant that if he were to kiss her - and he hadn’t, not yet - he would have to shift onto the balls of his feet to find the right angle._

 

_Brienne had shown him one evening, close to when he was finally rehabilitated, how she danced. Of course, there was no partner apart from the dull-edged sabre she wielded with a strange grace, shoulders arcing into the movements and muscles smooth in her thighs. She seemed to drift into another universe, her expression calm and worshipful as she silently counted her way through repetitions and foot movements. The sword twisted in her calloused grip, and Brienne flowed with purpose, and confidence, and with an almost holy effortlessness._

 

_When she turned to him that night, brow damp with sweat and hair sticking to her forehead, a wild grin across her blunt features, he wanted to have here there, on the grass, under the moonlight. All six foot plus of leggy, perfect Brienne. Just as she was, in her masculine clothing and Oxfords, looking like Alexander, or more Aegon the Dragon with her hair silvery and eyes darkly purple in the dusk. Her tongue would claim his, a prize worthy of the warrior, she would demand his body and attention, and Jaime? Would surrender totally to the confusing, erotic, glorious creature Brienne had become with the slash of a sabre._

 

_“I’m not bad,” she said, and the illusion shattered. She was just Brienne, self-effacing wench, clutching the weapon awkwardly now she had stilled._

 

_“You’re brilliant.” He meant it in all ways._

 

_But now, he was leaving. A joyful day, supposedly; Tyrion waited idly, a leg swinging under him as he sat on a table. Never one for conventional seating, his little brother. The rest of the Lannisters hadn’t cared to drive down to Sidcup and greet Jaime on his release. Just Tyrion, in his Eton togs, top hat jauntily placed on his wiry hair and mismatched eyes watching them keenly._

 

_“I’m so proud of you,” she murmured, smoothing a wrinkle in the new suit he wore. Jaime had lost weight and muscle, tending towards the otter-lean now, and he thought privately that it suited him more than the bulk he had once worn._

 

_“Thanks, wench. For everything.” The cufflinks at her wrist flashed, and he caught her hand in his, kissing the rough skin of the palm._

 

_“You know, Jaime, for fuck’s sake.” Tyrion’s drawl, caught between bored and wildly amused. “If you don’t kiss her properly, I’m climbing her and doing it myself.”_

 

_“Sod off, Imp.” Eyes of topaz, or sapphire, or deep oceans met his, and Brienne’s cheeks burned scarlet. Embarrassed. He’d kill Tyrion later, he decided. Little bastard._

 

_“I hope you have a pleasant journey.” She’d retreated back to perfect and polite, as stilted as when they had first met all those long months before. She seemed sad now, and smaller somehow, shoulders slumping._

 

_“I’ll miss you.”_

 

_Brienne leaned in to kiss his cheek, and Jaime went to kiss hers, but with the slight misunderstanding their lips touched lightly. Horror painted her face, the blush darkening to an ugly brick-red. Even as she tried to apologise most fervently, Jaime felt his resolve shatter into a million tiny shards, and he caught her mouth with his own once more. Fuck Cersei. Fuck the world. Brienne was his._

 

_As first kisses went, it veered between horribly amateur and breathtaking. Neither of them had much experience - Jaime having never been with another woman apart from Cersei - but the sincerity of touch, and lips, and tongue? The heat pooled at his stomach, his hands slid into thin fair locks as her arms locked tightly about his shoulders. This was more a duel? Very Brienne, he supposed, with her swords and fencing practice. Cersei had been almost snake-like and practiced, a parody of what a woman should be in all things. But Brienne? She gave herself, unhidden and completely, masculine and feminine in parts, into the kiss. Which lasted forever, and not long enough, and seconds, and a lifetime._

 

_They broke away, chests heaving, Brienne’s expression dazed and wondrous. Jaime was very aware that he was smirking._

 

_“Finally,” Tyrion drawled. “Can we go and get lunch now? Though you’re probably not hungry, brother, since you’ve just eaten.”_

 

_Jaime threw Brienne’s stethoscope at his favourite brother’s head._

 

* * *

 

Snow is okay. He follows. Listens. Knows the Water Gardens. He’s useful. He says about an ice house near the lake, dug into the stone. Maybe there? Better than I could think. I want blood. I want to see the thief bleed for this. Tear him open and rip his throat out with my teeth. Touching my Brienne. Mine. Not his. And my child. My child! For every harm he has done her I will deliver it thricefold. And I will enjoy it. Every single moment.

 

A hand on my arm. I go to swing a punch. It’s just Snow. He looks about twelve years old, they let children be policemen now? Stouter stuff than others though. He followed, he’s here, babbling about my leg and strapping it up. I just laugh. The ankle can wait. Idiot boy for thinking that I am more important than Brienne! Up a bank, through trees. So quiet here. No one is screaming. Whoever did this will scream so lovely when I’ve got hold of them. When I obliterate them. 

 

It’s there. Just a cave into the bank. Snow tries to pull me back and go in first, but I shoulder him out of the way because this is my case, boy, my wife and my case since Selmy wanted my help and everything is mine now damn you all. Dark. Night blind for a moment as everything settles and black turns to shadow. Short corridor, sloping down. Moss drips, slime on the walls. All very evil mastermind cave like some sort of cliche. I swallow another laugh.

 

The passage flares and Brienne is there. Bruises and blood and I rush forward as someone giggles in a broken way and a blade is caressed lightly along my wife’s throat. A tongue trails after the razor.

 

“Aren’t you pretty?” the kidnapper states. Pale eyes. Ugly. Dark hair. “Prettier than your wife. Maybe I’ll take you instead? I’ll make you into a lovely toy.”

 

“Ramsey, please?” Brienne mumbles. One of her front teeth is gone. Nose broken yet again. Too much blood over everything, like a glaze over a piece of meat. “Please stop this?” She’s lisping with pain and panic, terror blanketing.

 

“M’lady, hush.” Another of those sick giggles. He nuzzles against her neck. Against thick raw marks that glow red in the lamplight and I am going to kill him. I am going to crush the life from him. Everything is settling now, everything seems clearer now I can see Brienne. She’s not dead.  “You must be quiet and good. Otherwise I’ll have to play with your handsome husband. Maybe you’d like to watch? Maybe you’ll make him ready for me with that polite tongue of yours?”

 

Her eyes close muzzily. The bruising across her face is black and angry and so heavy that Brienne is probably concussed. Otherwise she would have fought. She could have thrashed this boy, this madman painted in blood.

 

“If you’re wondering,” and his grin is as crazed as his eyes, no sliver of sanity in the icy depths. “Threats are very useful for making wenches move. As is beating.”

 

“Don’t call her that.” My voice is too loud. Echoes. Impotent.

 

“Aw, aren’t you’re sweet when you’re being protective? Your anger is very lovely. I want to destroy that. Make you weep and beg and plead. Make you perfect. Maybe I’ll keep you both? A matching pair of wenches.” He licks his wormy lips, gaze flickering to my groin. “Father always said I am good with a flensing knife.”

 

Flaying. Flensing. Bolton? The eyes. The words. The Bolton Bastard. Isn’t that Brienne’s barber? Roose set him up in a shop with razors? He let his psychotic son use razors? Ones that lovingly trimmed my wife’s hair for the last two years? Sickness threatens, though a hand touches my hip and drags me back. Snow. He’s hiding outside of the lamplight. Clever, I suppose, for a bastard. Bastards. In all shapes, sizes, and sanity levels.

 

“Where’s the sword?” I rasp. My voice sears my aching throat.

 

"Dad has it.” So nonchalant as he licks beads of blood from Brienne’s ear, sucking on the wound he’s torn open under the lobe, encouraging the flow.“I just took it, gave it to him as he asked. Him and his fat slut wife. She won’t last, you know? I love killing the fat ones. If you peel the skin off, there are all these layers of blubber. Have you ever used soap made of human fat? I recommend it, gets all sorts of fluid off. Then I saw m’lady, who is always kind to her barber. Not like anyone else, you know? Always asking how I am, like she truly cares.” He looks fond then, stroking Brienne’s scarred cheek. She cringes. Pained and dizzy. “You know, thinking on it, I’ve never made a man before. Knights in stories are like m’lady. Brave and true and heroic, kind and gentle. They are very much not Lannisters. We both know she’d be a better man than you, don’t we, pretty Jaime? Perhaps that’s why you wanted her? Because she’s as close to a man you dare get.  Maybe I’ll use your cock and put it on her? Put a gash between your legs and fuck you like the princess whore you’ve always wanted to be? Then let m’lady have her turn.” His mouth is stained red, teeth pinkish.

 

Shit. He is. Just. I move then because what else am I supposed to do? Throwing myself towards Bolton and his flensing knife. White hot pain. Bicep. Fuck! Bastard. Got him surprised for a moment when my metal fist drives into his stomach. He beams though, as if he wants this, leg wrapping about my waist as he pulls me close. Bitter breath tainted copper. Hand around the embedded knife in my arm, and he’s tugging upwards, laughing all the while, biting at my throat and scrabbling at my trouser buttons. He’s hard. Grinding. Hurts. Blood everywhere. The laughing. Echoing around my head. So much agony. Brienne moans. Eyes dull but squinting into the darkness for a mere second. She grabs at his hair and pulls. Hard. Ripping his head away from mauling my jugular.

 

Snow moves, drags something out of his inner coat pocket, and shoots the crazy bastard straight through the middle of the forehead.

 

* * *

 

The medicinal qualities of tea are such that in every crisis someone goes and puts the kettle on. Brienne is wrapped in an enormous fluffy blanket and sipping from a steaming mug. In the brightness of the Dorne afternoon the wounds look awful. Raw rope burns, and razor cuts, and her poor nose even more crooked than ever. Tarly assures me that the injuries seem worse than they actually are, and that her voice will recover from the constriction about her throat.

 

He tied a noose around her neck so she wouldn’t try and run. So if she did, she’d choke herself. Of course she tried, being my Brienne. Tarly says there will be some scarring. I know he doesn’t mean just physically. She is overly pale, and every so often has to be roused from concussive sleep, and I just wish I could wrap her in my twice useless arms and tell her that I’ll never leave her side ever again.

 

He’s sewing me up as best he can, apologising constantly. To be honest, I don’t really feel the jabbing. Selmy took one glance at my state and fetched the brandy decanter, and most of the cognac is now happily in my stomach.

 

“This is so deep,” Tarly mumbles. “I’m so sorry that I’m hurting.”

 

“Had worse.” Raising my right arm. “‘Tis but a flesh wound, a mere scratch.”

 

Bolton did have to try and wreck my useful arm, didn’t he? My left flops fish-like, uselessly, bleeding over the table as the doctor stitches. He says it should mend to some extent, with direct and vigilant care. Every so often he pauses, squints, then asks Snow to get him another piece of gauze, or to adjust the lamplight. Apparently they are good friends, to the point where every month Tarly is asked to come to the capital and join the ‘Guards by the faithful bastard. He has the right temperament, apparently, of calmness under crisis when required. I admit, he is doing a bang-up job of sticking me back together. Just the ruptured tendon in the ankle, and now a half-dead left arm, and I’ll be right as rain in twelve months.

 

Selmy keeps asking questions and feeding me brandy. The decanter was mostly full, but there are perhaps a few tipples left in the crystal jug. With the lack of blood, at least internally, everything seems overly-sharp and louder, rather like flying above the scene, but the drink has calmed me - or at least taken the edge away. They had to drag me away from the corpse. Couldn’t stop punching.

 

“Roose Bolton admitted his part, but says Ramsey Snow,” and of course the father is forsaking the son, “acted on his own volition. Walda is heartbroken so she’s baking. She’s promised lemon cakes. It is strange how someone as cold as Roose Bolton could be fond of his wife, isn’t it? She says she’ll stand by him, but we’ll just have to see how it all goes. The sword is back with Doran Martell now. He’s ordering a specially reinforced display case.”

 

“You should promote Snow. Your Snow. Not the dead one. He’s good.”

 

The Inspector gives his constable a warm, fatherly smile. “Of course he is, he’s one of the best. Stupid for racing after you, but in the circumstances, and if I was thirty years younger, I’d have done the same. He reminds me of you a little, Jaime. The same impetuosity for getting yourselves into trouble to protect other people.”

 

Tarly shakes his head, glancing at his friend with that exasperated love that only brothers should share, before going back to his task.

 

“Have you released Dany?”

 

“Yes. She seems to have taken a liking to Jon. To the point where Rhaegar Targaryen has ordered he attend her on Dragonstone, or he will complain to the Knight Commander.” The curly head dips, and I know the little innocent is blushing his far too soft heart out. A promising ‘Guard is Snow, but needs to toughen up a bit before someone stabs him in the back, to be honest.

 

“I’ll go if I can take Sam,” Snow blurts out. “Miss Targaryen is very nice, but-”

 

“She looks at you like I look at a really nice bit of chocolate fudge cake” I add, and he flashes a thankful look. Maybe he doesn’t want a Dragon nibbling him? Maybe he wants a fat young doctor to take a bite instead? Tarly and Snow are confusing. Are they close through innocent friendship, or are there rivers running deeper? I have to admit, the young doctor would make an excellent human shield. After all, you never have to outrun the wolves or bears, you just have to be quicker than the slowest in your party. Perhaps he’ll throw Tarly to the dragons? To be honest, I don’t even care that much. Not at the moment. Another time maybe?

 

”Dragonstone is supposed to be really interesting, really good history and libraries. You’ll like it, Sam.” Snow nudges his friend, handing over more clean bandages, and is rewarded with one of those brilliantly sweet smiles.

 

* * *

 

“Sam says I’m having a baby.” Brienne repeats the fact every few days, as if to just make sure she isn’t hallucinating. She peeps through pale lashes, the bruising about her eye having slowly turning greeny-yellow over the weeks. The concussion spared her the most awful parts of her ordeal, and she cannot really remember much from just after Bolton (will not call him Snow, Snows are generally decent people, and Roose deserves to be tainted with his bastard’s madness) hitting her in the face. I’m just thankful she can’t remember. Brienne needs to keep her innocence. I tried to drag it from her years ago, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. Perhaps I was as mad as Ramsey Bolton for that little while? Before she managed to make me realise that good things could still be found in the world? Hideous thought.

 

I shove that back into the depths of my brain, where it belongs, hopefully never to see the light of day again. Perhaps it will slip back out when I am alone, and I can’t here Brienne humming lightly as she reads the ‘paper, or snuffling like a badger in her sleep. Tarly has made me promise that if I have any problems that I am to go to him at once. He’s taken Snow up on his pleading, and is now installed as one of the medical staff at the Citadel. Brienne trusts him to the point where she will not see any other doctor, even encouraging him to visit us socially. What can I say? She likes the man. They talk about boring breakthroughs and the uses of medication, babies, and she’s teaching him how to do her job. For when the baby comes. So us wounded aren’t neglected.

 

“Yes, wench. We’re having a child, Hopefully it’ll look like me, because Seven help it if it takes after you. But I’ll allow it to have your eyes.”

 

She smiles dreamily, looking a decade younger without the worries of the world imprinted onto her face. “A little lion cub, with blond hair and blue eyes?”

  
“Definitely has to take after me if she’s a girl,” I add. “Only cripples love ugly girls.”

 

Brienne kicks me, albeit gently.

 

“Dad’s so thrilled. He’s always wanted grandchildren.”

 

I’ve not told her yet, but before Brienne spawns forth our child, we are fleeing,  moving to Evenfall, to the welcoming bosom of Baron Selwyn Tarth (DCM and bar). See, Tywin considers Tarth-carried childer as racially superior to ‘Cella and Tommen with their Cersei-taint (and if he knew…). That will not do. There will be no favouritism, I will not see any of them treated as he did Tyrion, who, to be perfectly honest, is the best of us three Lannisters despite being designated scapegoat and black sheep. I’m also not staying here whilst Tywin, who is turning seriously strange and I blame the Olenna influence for everything, asks my wife about breast feeding, or whether we will employ the nanny he is trying to thrust at us, or (shudder) mucus. Did you know women produce mucus, and it changes depending on the pull of the moon? Caught Tarly having a discussion about it with Brienne, and I had to go and eat a healthy carrot-based snack in disgust. Keeping the promise about sweet food is difficult, but I’m looking even more bloody gorgeous than ever. Take that, Martell! Ha!

 

“I like your Dad. Can he be mine as well?”

 

“No. That would be incestuous.”

 

I stare at her, before she starts to chuckle. Beautiful sound.

 

“Don’t remind me of my dearest sister when we’re in bed,” I scold, kissing her collar bone, then the cleft between her non-existent breasts, then her slightly rounding stomach. “Or ever. Don’t mention her, that’s a good plan.”

 

Sometimes I wish she wears rings. Her wedding band is on a long sturdy necklace, always hidden under collars and ties, as she prefers to have full mobility in her hands. To be perfectly honest, I think she just feels strange wearing something that designates ownership. Wedding ring? Must belong to some crazed one-handed love-struck fool. The day after the vows, it was onto the chain, about her neck, and her saying something ridiculously Brienne about it being closer to her heart that way. If she did wear jewels, I would order her a golden eternity ring, inset with rubies, and sapphires that I’d make sure match her eyes. I’d take her somewhere romantic, somewhere definitely not Dorne, and I would say my vows to her all over again and under the stars.

 

But she is Brienne. She is sensible. She understands the threat of degloving when wielding a sword.

 

“I got you a present,” I murmur, face still buried against her ribs. She smells sweetly of talcum powder and the harsh yellow soap she insists is good for maintaining healthy skin, with the underlying Brienne-y note that is always her.

 

“Didn’t have to, Jaime.”

 

“Wanted to. You chose wisely in your choice of sperm provider. Have you seen how fertile Lannisters are? We practically make up half of the kingdom. Mine are especially nubile and spritely.

 

A roll of her astonishing eyes, and she ruffles my hair. “You’re daft, Lannister.”

 

“But you love me.”

 

“For all of my sins.” Brienne and sins? No such thing. Saints would be jealous of her innate goodness. I rummage under the bed to locate the present, which proves difficult as I refuse to move from Brienne’s comfortable torso. For someone who is built like that statue of a young male dragon rider that Oberyn Martell stares at lustfully every time he goes to the Red Keep, she is very snuggly. I could spend years just wound about her like a peculiarly lustful scarf. No, that’s a tennis racket. Shoe...is that a neglected sock I feel? The package is somewhere, and there, finally! Sadly, since this is a brilliant present, I have to detach myself from my limpid and welcoming wife and sit up. She does, too, naked and scarred and lovely.

 

“Hope you like it.” I hand over the long, slender box. I even put ribbon on it. Like a proper husband. She tears the paper carefully - no rampage for her - and methodically, undoing the bows, smiling fondly at my scrawl on the tag. Brienne never rips into parcels. She is all carefully slitting the packing tape with a knife, and folding the packaging in case it can be reused later. We’ve got drawers full of brown paper and random bits of string all through the house.

 

She removes the lid, and freezes, mouth agape, before she pulls the gift from the velvet-lined casket. It fits her hand; the folded steel oiled and gleaming. Lions roar on the pommel, ruby-eyed apart from the sapphires that sparkle within one of the heads. It is ostentatious, and deadly, and beautiful, and I am grinning so broadly that I think I’ve done myself a mischief.

 

“Valyrian steel.” She breathes the words, rapt and worshipping. “You bought me Valyrian steel?” Brienne weighs it in her hand, fingers easy about the leather and gilt wire grip and feeling how the sword balances. Perfection. As if it were made for her. I’m suddenly erect. I need to bury myself in her willing warrior body, the weapon caught between us, hideously aroused by naked flesh pressing wantonly against patterned metal. Brienne and swords has a constant erotic charge I really really like.

 

My wife. Won’t accept a ring, but give her a bloody weapon and she’s yours forever. 

 

“A blade needs a name.” My mouth finds her pale throat, tracing the rope scars. She tastes vaguely of salt and clean flesh and warm summer days on the Sapphire Isle. I’ll have to ask Tarly about lovemaking and pregnancy. Five more months of not touching my wench? Fuck that. Well, a man has a tongue, I suppose. Brienne is soft and pliant in my arms, careful not to put any weight on the still damaged and mending left. She nudges me, I wriggle about until the sword is laid back into the intricately carved casket, safe and snug once more, and then we are just pressed so very tightly together. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. Forehead to forehead. Her eyes glow with a strange tenderness, a deepness of regard that seems to light her from within.

 

“For promises never broken, and vows made when we were wed” she murmurs softly, breath sweet against my hair. “Because I love you, more than anything. I name her Oathkeeper.”


End file.
